


And So It Starts, It Comes Apart

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:05:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But of course alcohol has a role to play in this particular series of events. Situations such as these aren’t generally entered into with clear heads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So It Starts, It Comes Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Robyn, as always, you're a dear. More than a dear really. Samantha, your encouragement was really what got this piece to go from in process to finished. 
> 
> Title shamelessly stolen from "All My Friends" by LCD Soundsystem; I cannot even begin to elaborate on how difficult it was so title this, so I won't try.

But of course alcohol has a role to play in this particular series of events. Situations such as these aren’t generally entered into with clear heads; even undue amounts of adrenaline couldn’t have lead them to where they currently... reside.

But that’s getting ahead of the narrative, really. At the exposition there was a conclusion, of a case, naturally. Two gingers apprehended red-handed in a bank vault through cunning and guile and just a little bit of theatrics. John had ripped yet another jumper while Sherlock had barely broken a sweat in dodging a sloppy uppercut by suspect Clay (guilty) and yet still-

 _Adrenaline_. Perhaps that had something to do with it, but really, it was the alcohol.

Even so...

The suspects had been booked with little fanfare and John-and-Sherlock’s abbreviated statements taken and sorted by Lestrade. A celebratory meal had been suggested by Sherlock ( _of all people_ ) at Angelo’s naturally. Oh, _naturally_.

“You’re eating then?” and John’s tone had suggested that he’d be over the moon at the mere speculation that Sherlock would be ingesting solids in his _presence_. One might think this out of the ordinary and truly it is, but it’s not so out of the ordinary, at the very same time. It’s all very ambiguous and confusing between our two protagonists. Imagine all of the metaphors for romance paralleled with the worst similes really, and choose seven or so of the juxtapositions and one will come to find that none of this is traditional or by the book or really rational by any means. And in that none of that made sense, none of this does, not really, not totally.

But, it’s also the most natural and wonderful thing in the world.

There are two plates of Osso Buco and John swears that when he turns his head, Sherlock cleans his plate. It’s bizarre really, seeing a full and happy and slightly-inebriated Sherlock Holmes before him; what’s more bizarre is how _happy_ John is that he’s full and happy.

There’s no question, not really, that the love between the two of them is just a shade deeper than “close friends.” The fact that there’s a “love” there at all is quite novel to the good doctor and instead of marinating in the wonder of it, the alcohol makes him fumble around the issue. Not fumble, at all, really.

No doubt then. John Watson does not simply _love_ his partner, but is in love with him. Splendid. What could be even more splendid is if the good doctor would glance over at said partner instead of being immersed in Angelo’s tales of crimes past and _see_ Sherlock’s expression, as that would undoubtedly confirm that the world’s only consulting detective is immersed in the head-over-heels sort for his blogger.

There truly is no love quite like _requited_ love, but neither of the pair knows this just yet because they’re a bit sluggish - the wine, the _wine_ \- and in no state to go about things properly and with dignity.

Three bottles of wine; they had been consumed accidentally, really. Well wishers and admirers stopping by their table to lend their congratulations, to tip more Malbec into their drained glasses. Neither Sherlock nor John had cared to notice, not particularly. A solved case was always reason for a smile, for a raised heart rate, for a particularly hearty supper.

This, for obvious reasons, is entirely different. Well, it’s a hearty supper, truly, but it’s _different_.

There is Malbec to thank for that, of course. It could possibly be traced back to a Gregory Lestrade who insisted on the pair’s involvement in the case, or to a Mycroft Holmes who had suggest gently to the Detective Inspector that the infamous duo be brought on board. But no one wants to think of a responsible party, really. No one wants to sort the blame when two very attractive and two very-perfect-for-each-other gentlemen are about to tumble (and tumble is absolutely the proper descriptor) into bed. There’s no need to seek the reason for the two of them, so warm and inebriated _now_.

And so, the scene is set.

The scene is properly elaborated upon for one to understand how Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have come to stumble up two flights of stairs and fall unceremoniously onto the sofa, together. It’s a stunning little trip-and-fall, all gangly limbs and knees and two males coming torso to torso against a leather sofa.

Perhaps not. The scene can be further summated.

A cab, hailed by the owner of the establishment, in which our leads have had their fill of wine (not women, but for the sake of flow, the statement must be made; and for the sake of modernity, some women are _men_ ). There is a warm, drunk, compact, not-blonde against Sherlock’s side and it is surprisingly the taller of the two men who sets things in motion. An arm around his colleague, against his simply atrocious cranberry jumper.

“Sherlock, I am... oh, I think I’m drunk!” a revelation, but not really. His friend is too, quite drunk. They’re both some synonym of sloshed.

Sherlock laughs and settles the side of his head against John’s. The perfect alibi, really, the wine (if he chooses to use it) and yet, “John, I believe I’ve had too much to drink as well and if reason allows I’ll refrain from doing what I’m thinking of doing-”

“Well, on’t!” John says, his eyes shining in the dim interior of the cab.

And so, like that, Sherlock smiles so pleasantly and settles his mouth against John’s. Like that, right like that they’re exchanging quite deep and heated kisses, tongue slicking against eager tongue.

There! There’s a kiss, some cab fare and a pair of men struggling to get up the steps of 221B without unraveling.

And so, right, scene set.

“Jesus, _jeeeeeezzzzzus_!” John croons against Sherlock’s collarbone and thus the tone is truly set for the duration of the tale. There’s a bit of wonder from both parties that this is happening, or that either knows how to handle a situation such as this. “What are we, oh Christ Sherlock what are we...”

Sherlock is beneath John, staring up into his face; he’d much rather be kissing than staring at John (this too, a brilliant, novel feeling) and that’s the question, isn’t it? What exactly are they doing. There are ramifications for this sort of behavior between flatmates; if they are to proceed with their current course of action - that is shag one another senseless - there is no reversing the course of events. They will forever be flatmates who have shagged and who - whether they actually speak to this fact or not - love one another quite a lot.

 _Quite_ a lot, that endless sort of love. The deep and burning and never ending sort. But, that is if they choose to speak to it. Whether they do or not, however, it is an unspoken _fact_.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock breathes after a moment, his hands pressed into John’s chest. “I honestly. I... no idea.”

“Hmmm,” John considers and takes the opportunity to suck in a few steadying breaths, remind himself what the hell he’s actually doing right now. He’s on his sofa, _on top of Sherlock Holmes_ and is very ready (locked and loaded one might say if one were in the habit of slinging innuendo) to take this much, much further.

Sex: have sexual intercourse with his flatmate.

“Hmmm,” John continues. “Is that a problem?”

“Problem?”

“Is it? The not having any idea what we’re doing?” Sherlock’s index finger moves, his left index finger, shifts back and forth over John’s nipple, over the fabric. That sort of feels like it’s not going to be a problem. Sure, now that John’s thinking of it, he’d much prefer this - their first time - to be sober, so he can catalogue every last sensation, then again, this is sort of nice too.

The lighting is dim, very dim, the only light from the street, dappled against the curtains. It’s grey, distinctly grey, but Sherlock is starkly, crisply white beneath him and it’s too beautiful. How can he possibly have missed this before, the unnatural gorgeousness of the man-

Oh, sod it.

John leans down and kisses him gently, smiling against Sherlock’s mouth because, all right, perhaps it can be easy like this. Perhaps they can let this just, just _happen_ and talk about it later. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. His tongue slides against his flatmate’s before John retreats to nip at Sherlock’s lips.

“It’s fine, it’s...” Sherlock allows his eyes to slide closed, slips his hand down John’s back, shifts his knees until he manages to bring John fully on top of him. “Good.”

“Yeah?” John huffs out a breathless laugh and it’s all a bit brilliant, isn’t it?

Sherlock’s tongue slips out to wet his lip and John _wants_. “Yes.”

John nips at Sherlock’s chin, “Brilliant, then.”

Right, with the wine swimming in their heads and veins, John eases a knee between Sherlock’s legs and sweeps his palms against Sherlock’s cheeks. “Would it be too much if I mentioned how much this is-”

“Yes,” Sherlock growls. The man growls and really, if there were any bets at all they would almost certainly be off, now.

John mutters “Right, later,” as if to himself but Sherlock manages a quiet chuckle and doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They’re on John’s shoulders, on his hips, his arse, his hair. He leans up and kisses John messily and that’s fine, that’s all fine and lovely. There’s no rush and there’s no textbook to guide them through this, so John is keen to allow himself to bend to Sherlock’s whims.

Balancing on elbows, he manages to slow their kisses. They’re deliberate now, open and soft but _deliberate_ and Sherlock is shaking a bit, his hands to John’s back, his nape and finally the hem of his jumper. He tugs, hard, as though he does not understand the physics of dressing and undressing because the fabric snags against John’s skin, friction causing a swift heat to burn his skin. “Jesus, Sherlock, you know-”

“Take off that hideous jumper!” Sherlock demands and that clinches it; Sherlock is as worked up as John is.

So.

This is really happening.

Brilliant. And terrifying, mostly brilliant, though. But no, a fair bit terrifying as well.

John can’t even manage a laugh, he sucks in, meaning for one but begins to hyperventilate a bit, can’t think, can’t think as he grabs the hem of his jumper and tears it off, snagging his undershirt with it. “Okay, okay,” he says to himself as he tosses the heap of clothing towards the end of the sofa and sort of dives into Sherlock’s throat, scraping his teeth against the carotid.

It feels like the thing to do and that’s the _thing_. He’s flying as blind as he ever has and it’s all a bit maddening.

It’s strange, here, because Sherlock comes alive in a manner that John’s never seen. It should be unsettling, as this is a man who never really deviates from his mannerisms, but it isn’t, it’s something else entirely, something bordering on breathtaking. The taller man arches and whinges a bit, his groin finally bucking up into John’s pelvis.

And oh, those previous bets that were called off, it’s really as if they were never even made at all because Sherlock is hard and heavy between his legs and this is the first time in his history than John has even longed to taste, feel, _have_ something so much. Oh, oh, _ohhhh_. John supposes - in this instance he’s realizing - he should be questioning himself right now, why he’s about to do this, and with a _man_ , but the truth is, he can’t be bothered. He wants-needs this, and why question that? Why even _bother_?

“Alright, so,” and John’s lips can’t stop moving, he needs to speak. Sherlock fingers hesitate below his collarbone and then surge up, soft and warm everywhere. From his shoulders to his back, to his scalp, they skate over his lips casually and his cheekbones and slip over the crest of his ears and finally settle back at his nape.

Sherlock says, “Oh,” and then slams his eyes closed and kisses John again. And with abandon; it truly is abandon because John feels as though he’s being swallowed, or being absorbed or something similar and wholly consuming. It’s quite something too, to be kissed by Sherlock, to be on the receiving end of kissing-by-Sherlock-Holmes.

He’s becoming rather elated with his decision to forge ahead with this, really. Sherlock too, what with getting to catalogue the sensation of the kissing and the touching and the noises they’re both making, it’s unerringly gorgeous, _gorgeous_.

John lifts up - ever the helper - and undoes not just the button on his own trousers, but the button on Sherlock’s. Right, right, right. Knees and elbows and awkwardness and the two of them really can’t fit on this couch unless they’re going to be industrious and this isn’t the time at all to be industrious.

John pauses, has to arch back to disentangle himself a bit as there is so much of Sherlock to become entangled in. “Sherlock? Sherlock! Bed, yeah?” Everything stops and this is the moment that is in fact make or break. Because he’s given Sherlock the chance to say “Oh, actually, this is all a bit of insanity, let’s nip this in the bud before we morph into some strange amalgamation of flatmates that never speak to one another and can’t look each other in the eye.”

But Sherlock does not say this because Sherlock would never really say anything of the sort. Something much more abrasive true, but he doesn’t say word one about _stopping_.

Instead Sherlock is bucking and John is retreating and Sherlock is rising and storming off to his room and John is following (glancing quickly to make sure the toaster is unplugged) and it’s all, alright, just fine. Just a little weird, but not too much.

Sherlock tears the quilt off of his bed and drops it on the floor and stands, ramrod straight at the side of the bed. John stops too, hands balled at his sides because, ohdeargod it’s been awhile since he’s bedded anyone and he’s never bedded a man and can’t this just be easy and poetic and right?

“John?”

His throat is thick and tight when he gasps, “Your shirt.” And like that Sherlock is moving, his elbows slicing out while his fingers draw into his stomach and begin sliding buttons through gives. He’s not looking at John instead focusing on glancing down, biting his lip and hands shaking, oh _shaking_ and we don’t expect that, do we? We certainly don’t expect Sherlock to take directives, but here he is, doing as John doesn’t so much instruct but rather mention.

Sherlock Holmes is always in control but not now; so exciting, so new and real and have we mentioned _exciting_? Thrilling as he works the buttons at his wrist and-

Then there it is, a lily-white expanse of chest and it is, it is... oh dear, what is it?

It’s enticing and lovely and masculine and sculpted and John really just wants to put his hands on it. Thus, he does (it’s the natural progression) leans in and his mouth falls on Sherlock’s shoulder and he _does_ have to think for a moment now because truly he’s never done this and Sherlock feels so wonderful and tastes - dear god - even better and alright, back to the not-thinking thing.

“Great,” John says, quite aloud and advances, slides his hands atop Sherlock’s shoulders and can’t quite, doesn’t exactly-

“John,” there’s a pivot, something _very_ athletic, something one might see in _basketball_ and John is suddenly on the bed and Sherlock is all open-trousers and advancing on him.

“I’m drunk,” John says before he knows he’s saying it because, well, he is, and isn’t _that_ something. He can’t really think but he can speak and so he keeps speaking because it’s all a bit mad, this situation and he doesn’t know what, can’t actually... “This is, yes, you know that, alright.”

“Stop talking!” Sherlock urges and is exasperation, he clambers onto the bed, knees on either side of John’s hip and a hand in his trousers and oh! A hand in his trousers. There’s no trepidation there, just a strong, sure hand curling against John’s cock jesus christ oh fuck, oh fuck.

Sherlock’s eyes shine, picking up the lowlights in the room and magnifying them a million times in his pupils. Dear christ if John could look into these eyes forever, or just for a spell, glorious and never ending and spectacular; a natural wonder, John thinks, John breathes.

It’s then that time stops and John realizes the following things. One is apt to take in one’s surroundings and ruminate on the causes of actions when one is about to experience a life-changing event and John is fairly certain that he’s about to have sex with the last person he’ll even have sex with, so time slows for him.

How considerate of time!

“Sherlock,” John grunts and it’s so difficult, in the moment, isn’t it, to decide what one wants to say? John wants to say loads of things, but doesn’t and can’t because his mind is blank but somehow also _racing_ because there’s a fantastic palm stroking him and _fuck_.

Sherlock asks, as though he doesn’t know, and perhaps he doesn’t, there’s a very real chance he _doesn’t_ know, doesn’t know anything at all any more, “What do you want, John?”

Oh and what really, is he supposed to say? And can he say? Oh he doesn’t know if he can. “Fuck, Sherlock, oh god-” and, well, there it is.

So easy, sex, John recalls. John needs to take a breath and calm down because this is sex, and he’s had sex before and so... So then, so then.

“Can I,” John manages, bringing his own hand around to struggle against the fabric and slip his hand into Sherlock’s trousers. Hot and silken and already positively dripping. There’s a natural progress to this, they know.

The both of them.

Though, Sherlock breaks it down in his head thus, and there is no way for John to know any of this but, Sherlock breaks it down thus:

1.) I can take John off with my mouth and that would be perfectly acceptable because  
1a.) John has never had sex with a man and thus my performance cannot be inadequate  
2.) John could take me off with his own hand  
2a.) This would be acceptable because John is perfectly capable at masturbation and this fact can be extended to mutual masturbation, pleasure for both parties, fairly easily  
2b.) John is exceptional thus far at touching the male anatomy and will be perhaps better than myself at bringing orgasm.  
3.) New data. So much new _data_.  
3a.) There is of course the more traditional form of copulation.  
3b.) I trust John. I trust John implicitly.

Sherlock settles against the covers next to him, rolls his shoulders, swallows heavily. “John, yes, yes, but,” he swallows again and shifts higher until his head is upon a pillow. “There are certain preparations that we must-”

John follows suit, sliding up the bed until he’s laying on a pillow as well. “Of course,” John rationalizes and still and they _stare_ at one another in the dark. Not that time has stopped but John is remembering that there is a certain barrier and oh, fuck, won’t this be awkward and oh damn, they need _lube_.

But oh, isn’t it wonderful that John _has_ lube and “Oh, right, one... just one minute.”

John’s pants slouch and trip him up at the door. “Fuck!” he yelps and kicks them off and Sherlock doesn’t so much laugh as bark and isn’t this all quite mad? There are quick steps going up, up and Sherlock stares at the ceiling and thinks:

Sex, sex, sex, John, love John, John’s cock, things change, rent? rent? will Mrs. Hudson hear? condoms and sheets, laundry, John, John tastes lovely, lovely, _lovely_. Oh, right his cock, and then, and then, what? What, John’s cock. John’s cock. Cock...

He’s back through the door and slams it as though anyone might walk in - Mrs. Hudson might, might, likely won’t - “Alright, okay, okay,” John says, boxers and all and he realizes how absurd he must look even in what little light filters into the room. “Shit, what, alright,” and he steps to the bed and tosses his handful down onto the topcovers and settles on Sherlock. “Goes without saying that, bear with me because I’ve not, I’ve never, ...shit.”

Sherlock just blinks and somehow, somehow it’s positively crystal clear and that they’re both- “John,” and Sherlock makes this ‘get on with it!’ gesture that is impatient and would be unseemly to anyone if it wasn’t John.

John rolls his eyes, and amazingly, this is no difference; they are about to have sex and there is... no difference in their dynamic. Sherlock is still an amazing dick, just positively prickish but he kisses him regardless and they’re both sort of frowning. “If you think,” John bites out, between kisses, “That this is going to be... easy at, at...”

Still, Sherlock’s right hand finds his cock and strokes and pets and, talk about not playing fair at _all_. His presses John’s bottoms down over his arse and they snag on his thighs. “Bollocks,” he mumbles and rolls onto his back, somehow manages to shimmy them off. “And you?” John huffs in annoyance at seeing that Sherlock is still in his trousers.

Rolling his eyes, he maneuvers the fabric over his hips but, John, John is impatient and moves to assist in stripping him. Fingers curling around the hem John pulls the pants from Sherlock’s body, the two of them finally, blessedly naked.

Sherlock on the bed and John now standing at the side of it.

...it looks a little ridiculous, truth be told and John _feels_ a little ridiculous but the moment tightens and coils when Sherlock wraps his hand around his own cock and strokes _slowly_.

“Fuck,” John groans, eyes wide and finds himself kneeling up onto the bed, straddling Sherlock as Sherlock had straddled him before. “I, I...” He wants to touch and he wants to taste and-

“I’m yours John, just take,” and his voice tries for exasperated but it’s just raspy and needy and dear christ, well, alright. John leans in to stroke his cock - hot so hot - runs a thumb over the precome at the tip and everything whites out for a moment because John leans in and takes the tip of Sherlock into his mouth.

The man beneath him chokes and bucks and John feels brilliant; this is _Sherlock_ and he can taste him, feel the man’s blood thrumming beneath his lips as he slides down, takes in as much as he can. His tongue slicks against the underside, pressing as he goes, applying pressure here and there. John takes his time with Sherlock’s prick because he can and because he wants to and this is the first time he’ll ever be able to do this to Sherlock and he wants to get it right.

John settles back to leave a kiss at his tip - just because - and finds he want to press kisses all along the length and so he does.

“John, John, John,” a mantra above him as Sherlock fists his hands in the sheets and tries his very hardest not to buck up into John’s mouth. “Please,” he croons as John takes him down once more.

“Please what?” he asks after a moment, swiping the flat of his tongue against the slit.

“Stop!” Sherlock begs and just like that, everything freezes. John sits back on his heels and wonders about the thousand and one things that he could have done wrong and then his partner is speaking again, “Not stop, stop, just, I can’t...”

Ah, that. Right. John feels smug with himself and rightly so.

Sherlock shifts up onto his elbows and crooks his chin upwards; John leans in and they share a kiss and christ, John needs to be touched, he needs to, needs to. “Alright then,” Sherlock says against his mouth. “I’d like you inside me, if possible.”

He says it, just like that. Like he’s telling John they’re out of milk, or that there’s a text that he needs John to send. Like he’s done this a thousand and one times before.

John blinks. John blinks. He opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it and blinks again.

“That is why you retrieved the lubricant, no?” And honestly, if this were any other human being, his cheeks would flame pink (as would the rest of him, to be sure) and he’d cover his face with a hand and need a moment to shake off his embarrassment.

Instead, John says, “Well, yes, right,” and licks his lips and tastes the headiness of Sherlock. “Right, well, you know I’ve-”

“I’m well aware that you’ve never had intercourse with a man, John,” Sherlock sits up properly in bed, his prick heavy against his stomach. “But I trust you and, please, _on with it_.”

John is taken aback a bit, at the notion that Sherlock is well aware that he has very little to no idea what he’s about to do but that he trusts him. And, right, John’s seen these scenarios played out in films and so, he supposes he’ll rely on that knowledge. Reaching for the lube he almost wants to remind Sherlock that if John does anything that doesn’t feel right or proper, for Sherlock to tell him. But he doesn’t have to; he’s well aware that Sherlock won’t remain silent if something isn’t to his liking.

Moreover, _Sherlock trusts him_. Jesus christ, this is quite something. Quite something indeed.

John clears his throat. “Right, erm, I’ll need you on your knees then?” Absurd, this is absurd, but Sherlock complies quickly, “That’ll be... easiest,” John explains and has to bite his lip as Sherlock’s arse perks up, presses back towards him.

“There,” Sherlock says, almost proudly and John can’t help the overwhelming urge and so leans in and place a kiss on the other man’s hip, the centre of his back, his left arsecheek. Sherlock’s breath shudders out of him, rattling his lungs and John can’t help the adoring smile that plays upon his lips.

“Now I don’t know what really works to say in these situations but Sherlock, you’re gorgeous,” his voice is a little breathy and a little taken aback as he works a little of the lube onto his fingers. “Right, right, okay,” he says, only to himself and settles between Sherlock’s legs, presses his fingers to the ring of muscle.

He massages there for long moments, gently, gently.

“Alright?”

Devoid of emotion, Sherlock returns, “Yes.”

“Okay, here, now, relax,” it takes all of his composure to sound as though he’s in control of this situation, that he trusts himself to do this properly. A breath, deep, and he adds a bit more lube, a little pressure and his index finger slips in, up to the first knuckle.

Sherlock exhales, shudders and presses back, just a bit. “Yes.”

“Yes?” John asks, amazed at the heat, the pressure.

“Good god, yes,” and John slowly slips his finger _in_. A moment or two, letting Sherlock become accustomed to him and then he moves, just a bit, slowly, out.

In.

It’s only a few moments before John feels safe enough to add a second finger, just as slowly as the first. His other hand pets over the hollow of Sherlock’s back, his thighs, his arse. Gently. Carefully. In, out, gently and Sherlock doesn’t keen or cry out or ask for more, he simply picks up the rhythm, pants out harsh breaths.

Pants out John’s name.

It’s when John slides in a third finger that Sherlock finally speaks, to say, “Fuck!”

“Good?”

John stops, hears Sherlock swallow and sigh. His head dips down to the bed, dark curls teasing the covers as he claims. “Oh, it’s perfect.” There’s a grin on John’s face, because perfect is _perfect_ and he slowly works at Sherlock as he leans in to place a kiss in the center of his back.

“Good then, do you think that...” John asks, curling his fingers up just a bit.

Sherlock gasps, “Yes, it’ll be fine, fine,” and he presses back even harder this time, wanting more. John marvels at the pressure around him, wonders how it will feel to be inside of him and oh, that’s almost his undoing. “Get on with it, then,” Sherlock demands and John pulls slowly out.

Oh, his hands shake as he rolls the condom on, and yes, John needs a moment to remind himself what exactly is about to happen. He’s about to fuck Sherlock Holmes, slowly and methodically and wholly, if he can actually manage to last more than three seconds. He’s about to have sex with his best friend, but that’s alright he supposes because he loves his flatmate.

Quite a lot.

And being so thoroughly connected to a man (oh, a man, that’s still a bit of a mindfuck, but it’s just Sherlock. It’s _just Sherlock_ ) he loves sounds quite lovely.

“Sherlock?” He’s on his knees, gently pressing his cock at Sherlock’s entrance.

He turns to glance over his shoulder at John and what John sees in Sherlock's eyes blows him away. It’s the same look that’s heavy in John’s gaze. It’s the totality of _everything_ they’ve been through together. “John...”

There’s a pressure, a pressure and John is-

Oh god, heat. He’s on _fire_. “Is that?” he finds himself almost squeaking as he grips Sherlock’s hips so tightly that his knuckles are nearly white. It’s only a bit, only an inch or two but it’s glorious.

John feels _endless_ in that moment.

“It’s,” Sherlock voice shudders as he attempts to speak. “Slow, John, slow.”

He swallows thickly and does his best to reign in the shuddering that threatens to overtake his body. John presses just a bit further with a bit more pressure and Sherlock meets him halfway, adding a gentle pressure of his own. “I can’t-”

“Oh stop it,” Sherlock hisses, tossing his head a bit, “Of course you can.”

Grinding his teeth he sets to it, presses a bit further as Sherlock rocks back, back and just like that, they’re rocking _together_. John’s thumbs press against the hard ridge of Sherlock’s lower back as he bites his lip and prays for the first time since he was fifteen.

Prays that he can make this last, prays that Sherlock is feeling any fraction of what his burning up his soul, that they will love each other like this every day, for the rest of forever. “Unnnngh, Sherlock I, oh fucking Christ!”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock whispers as they manage to speed up a bit, John slipping in just a bit further, and the heat! And the pressure! Sherlock is so tight and accepting and honestly, he could die like this and it would be so pleasant; John would welcome it. He’s breaking apart, slowly and painfully and he leans in to lick a stripe up the center of Sherlock’s back. As he pulls back he slips his hand around and strokes Sherlock’s cock.

A little harder than he intended but it takes a bit to navigate the rocking against the cadence of his hand but the way he’s touching Sherlock seems to be working. His breaths become a bit more ragged and his whispers of “Yes, yes,” segue to whispers of “John, John.”

His twists his hand a bit on the downstroke and Sherlock’s back arches, he sits back on his heels and-

Fuck.

Sherlock is in John’s lap, completely, totally. John can’t help it, being fully enveloped by this man, he wraps his free arm around Sherlock’s chest and bucks up slowly once, twice and comes, squeezing Sherlock’s cock as he does and Sherlock backs his hand away, spits into his hand and takes himself off seconds after John, ribbons of come against his bedclothes.

They both take a moment to compose themselves, John kissing the back of Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock working himself off of his flatmate carefully. There’s so much air that John needs to suck into his lungs and he does so greedily as he ambles off of the bed, tidies himself up. When he walks back into the room, his chest still heaving, still moderately sticky, wondering idly how sore he’ll be in the morning he realizes that this is the awkward bit.

He’s got a room just at the top of the stairs and there’s a fairly good chance that he’ll be relegated to sleeping there this evening. It is Sherlock, after all, and he wouldn’t begrudge the man his space, time to think.

But when he walks back through, Sherlock is beneath the covers, prim and proper, to the absolute furthest left of the bed he could be without slipping off. “People prefer sides of the bed, don’t they?” He asks this to the wall, doesn’t bother looking at John and ah, yes, it appears that our fantastic duo are right back on normal footing. Isn’t that something?

“Erm,” John says, his voice gone a bit hoarse.

Sherlock glances over at him quickly with a distinct air of impatience. “I’ve chosen the left side, thus, you’re relegated to the right. If we wake in the morning and find this unsuitable I suppose... we could reevaluate our situation.”

“Our situation?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and slips down so his head is on the pillow. “The natural progression John, don’t be daft. The wine is wearing off and leaving an enormous headache and I’ve no patience for you to play catch up. Get in bed, so we might get _some_ sleep?” And ah, there it is, a break in the veneer as the left side of his lips try to jump into a coy smile.

Sherlock tames it before it manages to bloom fully but a weight lifts in John’s chest and he smiles, rolls his eyes, pads out to the kitchen to grab them a glass of water, a few tabs of Paracetamol.

“Take these,” he says upon his return, tossing two white tablets onto the covers at Sherlock’s waist. “For the headache and the... well...”

“Well,” Sherlock returns, his voice flat, though his eyes shine.

John grins and climbs into bed, doing his best to remain far enough on the right side of the bed as to not crowd Sherlock but he has other ideas; he reaches over, shifts John a bit closer and presses him back onto the bed, directly on the wet spot.

“Oh, oh, Sherlock, come on, that’s not, that’s-” And annoyed but laughing, John inches back towards the right and shrugs Sherlock’s hands off of his shoulders.

Sherlock blinks, “That’s for coming first.” John’s face goes blank. “Next instance it’s together or not at all.”

And thus the inebriation wanes and the story draws to a close. It should be mentioned that we have both a 2008 Bodega Catena Zapata Malbec and thus the simultaneous absence of most inhibitions to thank for these two men coming together.

Surprisingly enough Sherlock compromises and allows them to fall to sleep with the uncomfortable spot of moisture _between_ the two of them and so of course they sleep rather peacefully and without incident.

They wake up and well, that’s a story for another day.


End file.
